Onmund's Rosy Staff
by ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: Onmund just wanted to get laid. That's all. Now he has to decide if he wants to play the hero, or just say 'to hell with everyone' and roam Skyrim as Sanguine's Champion, doing his bidding.
1. Ice Magic

This is a companion story to my Hero Series. The events within take place leading up to Chapter 18 of "Hero by Choice" and are told from the POV of Onmund. If you recall the events that took place in "Hero by Mistake", you should be aware that the escapades that will occur within will be a bit raunchy.

I decided that Onmund needed to come back. He won't necessarily have redeemed himself, but he will definitely play a major part in kick-starting the resolution of the major "plot problem" of "Hero by Choice".

And, yes, the title of this short story is a definite double entendre.

I wrote this ages ago, and only recently decided to use it.

_All characters and places within save for Deborah are © Bethesda Softworks._

* * *

**ONMUND'S ROSY STAFF**

**1**

**Ice Magic**

The Daedra Lord had been generous to him, his chosen one, his Champion, after the stunts he had pulled at the College. Sanguine had filled Onmund's pockets with gold with each and every task the mage performed for the Prince. His grand reward for Onmund was revenge on the Nord named Deborah. Nothing violent, nothing vile, just awkward and a tad villainous, and the mage was allowed to watch the entire escapade.

The tasks were quite… stupid, really: master the art of Illusion Magic and learn how to remain invisible for considerable lengths of time; spy on bathing students to later report back to the Daedra on their habits and conversation topics; play the voyeur and watch couples having sex; and, most absurd of them all, pleasure himself, as often as possible, while invisible and spying on bathers or lovers. Each task would earn Onmund one hundred gold coins – two hundred if he performed the task naked – with a little extra for juicy details on the sexual exploits of others, and fifty extra for pleasuring himself to completion.

"Why me?" Onmund had asked the Daedra Lord.

"Because you haven't bedded a woman since you were fifteen," Sanguine had replied. "Your nuts are hard as ice and satisfying yourself behind closed doors certainly isn't helping!" The Prince let out a raucous laugh, clearly amused at Onmund's sexual frustration and visible embarrassment. Sanguine reached out a hand and grasped the mage's shoulder. "Because, dearest Champion, I have seen the future! I know you have what it takes to spread merriment across this land. Give old Uncle Sanguine a good name amongst the Northmen – make them understand that I'm actually… pretty great." The Daedra Lord's smile was broad, and shining.

In truth, satisfying himself in public, though invisible, indeed helped with Onmund's utter and devastating sexual needs. He no longer suffered from nightly erotic dreams that had been escalating in both vividness and extremity. He no longer woke up in the middle of the night with a furious erection. And though he was not allowed to touch those he watched, Sanguine's orders, he did so anyway, once or twice. Nothing sexual – the brush of a shoulder here, the whisk of a tress of hair there – ultimately aiding in his ability to satisfy his urges. People thought he was a ghost, that the College had suddenly been inundated with ghosts. But it was him breathing down the necks of unsuspecting women, him accidentally knocking over objects or opening a door in the presence of someone. His invisibility spells had reached such levels of skill that even Sanguine voiced his jealousy.

When Onmund asked Sanguine how exactly pleasuring himself publicly would spread merriment and the 'goodness' of the Prince's name, the Daedra Lord replied: "The merriment comes later, dear Champion. First, trials to prove your worthiness, and helping you find relief."

Onmund had never dared to attempt Sanguine's most difficult task until one day when the two ladies he'd most desired, Brelyna Marion and Deborah, had gotten drunk and started kissing. The day it happened, he had seen more of Deborah's body than he ever had before. Brelyna had accidentally turned her into a horse, which of course had disintegrated the smallclothes Deborah had been wearing during the drunk magic-snowball fight. After that moment, Onmund couldn't get the visual of Deborah's curves out of his mind; his arousal was mounting readily.

He knew her friends were taking her to her room to recover from the magical transformation (and perhaps to sleep off the wine they had all been imbibing). He followed them to the student's hall where the bedrooms were. He paced back and forth for a while in his own room, wondering if he should do it._ Two hundred gold coins, _he reminded himself. All he had to do was shed his robe, cast his invisibility spell, and secretly pleasure himself while in the presence of another person.

Onmund knew that once Deborah's friends Marcurio and Bird left her room, she was alone. Brelyna had been taken to her own room by Elodie to sleep off the wine and think about her mistake.

_This is it, _he hold himself_. Two hundred gold. TWO HUNDRED GOLD._

He shifted out of his mage's robe and removed all other strips of clothing from his body. Before he cast his most powerful invisibility spell, he took in the sight of his hardening manhood and felt a chill run up his spine. He wanted Deborah, but he knew he'd never have her, just like he would never have Brelyna, as Brelyna didn't even like men in that way. This was as good as it was going to get.

The invisibility spell took a lot of energy out of him, and his arousal temporarily diminished. He slowly opened his bedroom door, peering into the hall to assess its occupants. Satisfied that the hall was empty, he left his bedroom and light-footed his way over to Deborah's. He pulled on the handle – the door was unlocked. Opening the door only a sliver, he peaked inside. Deborah was asleep, on her side, facing away from the door, and snoring. Onmund took one more wary look behind him before entering Deborah's bedroom and then closed the door behind him.

The naked, invisible, and aroused mage stood at the foot of Deborah's bed. The woman stirred, and Onmund froze until he remembered that he was invisible. Deborah kicked off the bedsheets, revealing her body to Onmund. He felt a pang of desire deep within him, but refrained from touching the woman's body. That was not part of Sanguine's task. That wasn't allowed.

Onmund couldn't see his own body, but he didn't need to. He reached forward and, slowly, began to stroke his shaft. He allowed himself time, all the time he wanted to imagine himself on top of Deborah, squeezing her large breasts, pulling her hair back, feeling her from the inside, making her moan. His invisibility spell could last for hours; time was a luxury he had. But soon the mage lost track of the time that had passed, and Deborah awoke. Onmund was thankfully still invisible, but had not yet finished his task. Frantic and worried that the woman would walk out of the room, he silently stepped toward a corner with a chair and sat down. He watched, one hand on his erection, as the naked Deborah foraged for some bits of food and water before lying back down on her bed. Worried about what would happen should he orgasm while invisible, he slowed his strokes, and waited. When a knock came at Deborah's door, Onmund cursed internally, and froze.

Deborah stood, wrapped her body in a bedsheet, and answered the door. It was Brelyna, coming to apologize for turning Deborah into a horse. Onmund sat, frozen, praying that the two would leave and he could forget this idiotic, careless task and run back to his room, but Brelyna had closed the bedroom door. He was stuck.

When Brelyna, still drunk, began kissing the also still drunk and still naked Deborah, Onmund nearly swooned. His passion took over and he began finishing in earnest what he had started_. Almost there, almost there, almost there_, he chanted to himself. He wanted both of them, Brelyna and Deborah, so desperately, and there they were, together. He imagined the two women with him, worshiping his manhood.

"Do y'ear that?" he heard Brelyna say.

_No. No no no no!_ Onmund froze, erection throbbing from the rush of blood. He wanted to run, uncaring of the two women witnessing the door opening on its own. But before he could sit up and reach for the door handle, Deborah cast a life-detection spell and, immediately after, Onmund's feet were stuck to the floor in a pile of ice. He cried out from the pain of magic biting his bare flesh.


	2. Rags

**2**

**Rags**

Despite his gloves and mage's hood, Onmund's fingers and nose were nearly frozen by the time he reached the southern gates of Windhelm. He thanked the Divines that an inn was right there across the main plaza, a blazing brazier standing bright and warm by the entrance. He removed his gloves and thawed his hands near the flame before continuing across the plaza and into the inn. He had only been to Windhelm several times before, but had always stayed with a friend, never needing to spend the night in the Candlehearth Hall.

Onmund no longer had any friends.

Sitting down at the bar to a meager bowl of venison stew and a glass of water, he mournfully counted the remaining gold coins he carried.

"Elda?" he called to the innkeeper.

"Yes?" The middle-aged woman answered Onmund while folding freshly cleaned napkins.

"Might you have a space in the inn for those who… may just want a roof over their heads? Those who carry their own bedroll…."

Elda half-smiled knowingly, recognizing the defeated look on the Nord mage's face. "Of course. There's a communal room in the basement, on the other end from the bathing room. Three gold, and the roof is yours for the night. It's kept warm enough by being underground; it merely lacks the privacy of a single room…. How long will you be staying?"

Onmund's shoulders sank as he took a tiny sip of water. "I'm not sure." A patron entered the inn, letting in a bitter, snow-filled gust of wind before the door closed again. Onmund shivered. "I think I'll head south. Riften, maybe. Somewhere warm." _And far, far away from Winterhold and Rorikstead,_ he thought.

"Just the one night then, I suppose, hmm? If you want to stay longer, we can work out a deal. Bulk discounts, and all that."

"Thanks, Elda." Onmund reluctantly parted with more of his dwindling pile of gold coins. He finished his stew, and then headed down to the basement with his knapsack and bedroll.


	3. Riches

**3**

**Riches**

As Onmund stuffed into his knapsack gold coins and random pieces of jewelry from some patron's room in Candlehearth Hall, he shuddered from the memory of ice stinging his feet and his swollen shame being visible to half of the College. He shuddered with anger at Deborah and Brelyna for getting him kicked out of the College. He shuddered with the realization that he could have _maybe _been with her, Deborah, that night she drunk Sanguine's ale.

Sanguine had never given him the gold for the task, as it had not been completed. But the Daedra Lord was indeed amused, and made Onmund a promise: he would aid the mage in exacting his revenge on Deborah and give him one thousand gold for the task. At the time, Onmund found the idea too tempting to refuse, and agreed to the deal. This was a decision Onmund regretted, however, as after that night, Sanguine disappeared. With little over one hundred gold coins in his coinpurse, Onmund was left to fend for himself. No matter how many times Onmund prayed, Sanguine never answered.

And, so, Onmund began to steal. He stole little things at first – food, just to survive; a gold coin here or there; a few items from the small shop in Winterhold. His invisibility spell came in very useful, in the end. He knew if he re-cast the spell every so often, he could remain invisible indefinitely until he lost concentration. It was in this way he was able to hitch a ride with a courier on a horse-drawn cart to Windhelm. The ride would have normally cost him fifty gold, funds he couldn't spare.

He left the Candlehearth in the morning with a handful of stolen goods in his knapsack and headed to the Khajiit trader camp outside the city's stables. He had never traded with the cat-folk before, but he was desperate, and he knew that the Khajiit never asked questions when purchasing items.

Onmund was thankful that he was able to sell the stolen items easily. He used the gold and his haggling skills to obtain some preserved food and some new boots. Onmund was about to leave, but hesitated. He turned back to the trader. "You don't by any chance travel to Riften, do you?"

Ma'dran peered up at the mage, his human-like snout twitching up a little, revealing a large, pointed tooth. "No, friend, this band does not. The one that does is led by Ahkari."

"Oh. How long does it take to walk to Riften from here?" Onmund asked.

"About one week… less if you cut through roads," answered another male Khajiit who had overheard Onmund's question. "It is dangerous to walk alone…." Onmund noticed an odd look in the Khajiit's eyes, but thought nothing more of it. The black cat-man, with many piercings in his tall, pointed and tufted ears and a broadsword strapped to his back, approached Onmund. "If you wish, this one will travel to Riften with you… for a small fee. This one has business in the southern town, and it has been quite some time since this one felt warm…." The black Khajiit turned to Ma'dran who gave a vague flick of his wrist, indicating his indifference to the black Khajiit's desire to leave his current caravan.

Onmund considered the Khajiit's offer. "How 'small' a fee?"

The black Khajiit ran clawed fingers through a tufted sideburn. "Twenty gold. This one feels generous today, and can see your coin purse is light…." His toothy grin unnerved Onmund. "This one is called Ma'jhad, guardian to Ma'dran, but often has need of travel to Riften. For… obtaining wares, and such." The black Khajiit named Ma'jhad smiled that toothy smile of his again.

"Twenty gold seems a bit much for one who needs to travel south anyway. Make it ten, and you have a deal. Ten gold for your sword, and your directions. In exchange, I will protect you just the same, or heal you, whichever is needed." Onmund had to sell his own iron shortsword, and admitted to himself that a traveling companion would be wise.

"Ah, yes, this one recognizes the mage. Indeed, you may not need more than this one's directions to Riften. A deal, then. Ten gold. And what is the mage's name? Or shall this one just call him 'Mage'?" Ma'jhad grinned.

"Onmund," he answered.

"Onmuuund," Ma'jhad repeated. "Khajiit welcome Onmund the Mage as a friend. We shall travel the southern road together, in the morning. You are welcome to share this one's tent until then, if you wish. It shall be included in our deal…."

Onmund briefly considered his options: spend three gold to sleep in the basement of Candlehearth, or spend no gold to share a tent with an admittedly unnerving Khajiit. He then had a thought. "Is there anything I can help you with until tomorrow? As you said, I am low on coin…."

"Khajiit are not allowed inside the city walls," Ma'dran answered Onmund. "Ma'jhad and Ra'zhinda have need of certain wares the city may have. Fetch them, and we shall share our meals with you."

Onmund accepted immediately.


	4. Thieves

**4**

**Thieves**

"This one is curious," Ma'jhad asked as he and Onmund headed south. It was dawn, and the sky was unusually cloudless, allowing the sun to warm their faces. "What does this Nord mage want in Riften?"

"Work," Onmund answered plainly. "I knew a Dunmer, Enthir, who often spoke of people flocking to Riften to find work. The man is an… is…," Onmund nearly spoke his mind, but cut himself off in time, "is a shrewd businessman, but he knows people. He told me to look for a Nord named Brynjolf in Riften if I ever needed work. I suppose getting paid to be a mage is not very lucrative."

Ma'jhad chuckled, but the sound was more of a sinister laugh to Onmund's ears. "Can a mage not kill? Heal? Protect? Khajiit respect mages. This one cannot heal without potion or salve. But the mage speaks of Brynjolf…. Ma'jhad knows the Nord well. The mage does realize who Brynjolf is, yes?"

Onmund looked at his Khajiit companion over his shoulder. "He helps people find work. What else is there to know?"

The Khajiit laughed again. "My friend, this one recognizes a thief when he sees one. Silver candlesticks? Jewelry?..." Ma'jhad smiled. "But, this one is confused. Nords do not make the best thieves – too big, too heavy. This one wonders – does the mage know invisibility spells?" Onmund stopped short, and Ma'jhad turned to the mage, a knowing look on his face. "Do not worry," the Khajiit waved his hand across the space between the two men. "Ma'jhad does not judge. Hard times demand hard actions, yes?" Ma'jhad continued walking, and Onmund followed soon after.

Moments later, Onmund thought he had come to a conclusion. "You're a thief?"

"Thief? Thief…. Yes, and, yet, no. Ma'jhad is big like you – strong, heavy, easy to see and hear. Khajiit does not know invisibility spells…. A true thief is agile, swift… smaller than this one. Khajiit have many skills, however. This one can pick locks – any lock. Some thieves steal objects. This thief steals opportunities. Find a chest? Pick the lock. But other thieves, the smaller, swifter, quiet Khajiit… they steal the chest, the strongbox, the safe. This one _opens_ the safe." Ma'jhad smiled broadly. "Ma'jhad also opens skulls of those who dare threaten… or discover us."

Onmund swallowed hard, but he soon felt comfortable admitting his skills to his traveling companion. "Yes, I know invisibility spells. I can remain invisible for hours if I am not distracted." He neglected to mention the reason why he mastered the spell in the first place.

"Invisibility is a thief's best skill. Ah—well, perhaps second only to picking pockets…." Ma'jhad patted Onmund's side where his mage's robe had a deep pocket. "But this one cannot do so without getting caught." Ma'jhad chuckled.

The travelers decided to camp outside Kynesgrove on their first night, as the weather had grown unexpectedly harsh. When Ma'jhad's tent was set and their bedrolls laid out, Ma'jhad sat down and lit up a pipe of something that smelled awfully sweet to Onmund.

"What's that?" he asked the Khajiit.

Ma'jhad puffed out several rings of smoke that increased in size the further they floated from his mouth. "Skooma mixed with snowberry, Ma'jhad's favorite." He handed the pipe to his Nord companion. "Try, you will like it."

Onmund stared at the pipe. "What does it… do?"

Ma'jhad smiled. "For the evening, the sugar will help you forget the reasons why you are traveling to Riften, forget what… or who… you are fleeing…."

Onmund studied Ma'jhad's expression. He was relaxed, very relaxed. Onmund was instantly jealous. He hadn't felt relaxed in a long, long time. The mage accepted the pipe from Ma'jhad and tentatively raised the end to his lips.

"Inhale gently," Ma'jhad suggested. "Slowly. Not too much. This is your first taste. One or two puffs, and you will feel at peace. This one promises…."

Onmund followed Ma'jhad's instructions. Indeed, the moment he took in the second puff of sugary fumes, he felt as if someone had performed a full-body heal on him. Every muscle in his body relaxed, and he felt happier than he had been in years. He lay back on his bedroll with a sigh. His hands developed minds of their own, and they felt their way up his robe from his waist to his chest, and down again. "It's like… feathers…," Onmund muttered.

Ma'jhad chuckled. "Yes. Feathers. Indeed…."


	5. Snowberries

**Warning**: M/M sexytimes below. Shifts to Ma'jhad's POV at the end.

* * *

**5**

**Snowberries**

Two days later, Ma'jhad insisted that they head toward the nearest Imperial camp to trade for food and perhaps camp nearby. They would approach the soldiers slowly, weapons sheathed. Unlike Stormcloak soldiers, Imperials tended to respond at least neutrally to Khajiit. Indeed, the two were able to both camp nearby and trade various items for some fresh venison.

"Shor's Stone is a long trek from this camp," Ma'jhad told Onmund. "We will have to camp somewhere mid-way. This one knows of a place west of the road."

"And how many more nights will we be traveling?" Onmund asked.

"Four, if the weather is kind. Unless the mage feels like running his way to Riften…."

Onmund chuckled. "No. I'm not big on running."

South of Shor's Stone, Ma'jhad grew more wary of Stormcloak soldiers. They would not be able to camp near them, as had been the case at Kynesgrove, where the two were forced to stay at a distance from the soldiers. They ended up camping east of Fort Greenwall, in the hills.

"From here it is a long walk to Riften," Ma'jhad said, "but there we will have soft beds to rest our weary feet."

"With the Thieves Guild?" Onmund asked. Ma'jhad had told him all about the organization during their travels.

"Yes. There are always extra beds, and Ma'jhad and his friend will not be refused entry."

"Friend…," Onmund huffed before taking a long drag from Ma'jhad's pipe. "You I think are my first Khajiit _friend, _though I have known a few…."

"Khajiit seldom make non-Khajiit friends."

Onmund's head began to swim in a skooma fog. He lay down on his bedroll and passed the pipe back to Ma'jhad. "Skooma," he whispered. "How much does it cost, if I wanted to buy my own?"

Ma'jhad smiled. "The sugar… pure sugar, not much gold, if you just buy one pipe's worth. Prepared skooma is more. This one warns the Nord, though. Khajiit can smoke the sugar often without issue – at least, most of the time. Man and mer do not fare so well."

Onmund chuckled. "Good thing I'm mostly broke, then." He shut his eyes and let the feeling of weightlessness take over him.

For a moment, Onmund thought he had grown a third hand. It smoothed down the fabric of his mage's robe and ended at his thigh where the robe overlapped. And then he remembered he only had two hands. He looked down to find Ma'jhad's furry, clawed human-like paw pressed to his clothed high. Onmund looked to his side and found Ma'jhad's mouth perilously close to his. The Khajiit's mouth smelled of hyper-sweet berries.

Onmund's lips moved, but he forgot how to speak. He realized he had taken too much of the sweet sugar smoke when a delicate whisper sounded in the back of his mind. The voice sounded familiar – sweet, intoxicating, demanding, luscious.

_Kiss him_, the voice said. _You know you want to_.

Onmund's brow furrowed as he processed what he thought he had heard. While he was reacting internally, Ma'jhad had inched his way closer to the mage. The Khajiit's tail curled around his body and tickled Onmund's thigh. Onmund felt that same burning desire he remembered feeling in Winterhold, the intolerable need to press his body against someone.

_A Khajiit is just a man,_ the whispering, inviting voice spoke to him. _A furry, tailed man._

When Ma'jhad's hand found the opening between Onmund's mage's robe flaps, the Nord instinctively closed his eyes and moaned at the Khajiit's warm, fluffy touch. Hot breath soon teased Onmund's neck, and the mage felt a teasing drag of claws against his lower torso, just above his loincloth.

"Ma'jhad," Onmund half-spoke, half-moaned his companion's name. "I am not Khajiit," he whispered.

A low, faint vibration rumbled from Ma'jhad's throat and chest. His deft fingers began to undo the thin leather thongs that held up Onmund's trousers.

"Not Khajiit," Onmund repeated.

Ma'jhad leaned closer to Onmund, his body nearly on top of the Nord's. Muzzle pressed against Onmund's ear, Ma'jhad whispered, "Sanguine does not mind. _This one_ does not mind. Can you not feel the Prince's pull…?"

"Sanguine…?" Onmund mumbled. "Sanguine…." As the mage contemplated why his companion would speak of the Daedra Lord, Ma'jhad found his way under Onmund's loincloth and gingerly ran his sharp claws up and down and around the area, feeling Onmund's arousal slowly build.

Ma'jhad felt his own desire building, and with his free hand undid his own trousers. "The skooma will help with the pain," he purred. Onmund only moaned in response, unclear to Ma'jhad if the Nord had registered what he had said. The Khajiit placed the end of the skooma pipe against Onmund's mouth, and the mage took one last long drag. Onmund held in the vapors and before he exhaled, Ma'jhad placed his mouth above Onmund's, ready to receive the expired sugary air. The Khajiit's padded palms found Onmund's hardening shaft. "Ma'jhad desires the mage," Ma'jhad whispered.

The Nord took it upon himself to crawl onto his hands and knees. Though the mage had never had a man before, he had witnessed the scene between Deborah and her two male friends as the threesome coupled in various positions. Instinct, and perhaps Sanguine's influence, had told him to assume the position he was now in.

Ma'jhad shifted swiftly to his knees, his trousers falling to the ground. He then spat on his fingers and pushed two inside Onmund without warning. The Nord gasped, but did not flinch. The skooma was working well. Ma'jhad felt Onmund relax against his touch almost instantly. He added a third finger, and reached forward to continue stroking Onmund's shaft.

When the Nord began to buck against Ma'jhad's hand, the Khajiit knew his companion was ready. He was careful upon entering the man. Non-Khajiit were not built to receive their particular appendages inside of them, and skooma or not, the process could hurt or injure a man or mer if not performed slowly. The trick was to not be fully aroused until inside the receptive person. Ma'jhad knew this well, having bedded his fair share of non-Khajiit men.

With the aid of the skomma, spit, and premature slickness released from his organ, Ma'jhad slid into Onmund easily. He was careful not to lose control, not to let his arousal build fully all at once. Slowly, slowly, he had to let go, let the blood flow into his shaft. When fully aroused, the tiny barbs in his organ sprung out, hitching onto the inside of Onmund. Done correctly, the receiver would not feel but a slight pinch as the Khajiit peaked. Most non-Khajiit found male Khajiit rather boring lovers for this reason only – fervent thrusting was impossible once the male was fully aroused. Still, Ma'jhad found his release inside the moaning Onmund. Deflated, Ma'jhad pulled out of Onmund and tossed the Nord onto his back. Ma'jhad kicked his trousers fully off and quickly climbed on top of Onmund. The lack of a barbed penis was precisely why Ma'jhad favored non-Khajiit lovers. He could thrust against them wildly, roughly and even angrily, feeling a vastly different kind of pleasure. Onmund's moans quickened, and Ma'jhad felt the Nord release inside of him. The session was quick, but none less pleasurable.

Ma'jhad, feeling chilly, retrieved his trousers and loincloth and redressed himself. Before his head touched the thin pillow of his bedroll, he heard Onmund begin to snore, loudly.


	6. Business

**6**

**Business**

"That is enough," Ma'jhad said as he took back his skooma pipe from Onmund. "We must travel far today."

"I can handle it," Onmund protested, taking one last puff.

"_Enough_." The Khajiit yanked the pipe away and finished off the vapors himself.

"Mmm," Onmund moaned as the sweet drug worked him over. "It's your fault, you know. Your claws tore me up inside, I think."

Ma'jhad didn't correct Onmund about what exactly had injured Onmund's insides. "The mage has healed himself, yes? It appears as if you shall live."

"Live, yes. Live with the memory of being buggered by a cat…."

Ma'jhad hissed as he pulled on his boots. "You were aware of everything last night; do not now claim otherwise." The Khajiit eyed the moderately-high Onmund. "This skooma is weak. It does not fog one's mind as fully as other brews. Ma'jhad does _not _follow the teachings of Molag Bal…."

Onmund rubbed his eyes and sat up. He watched Ma'jhad's fingers work at the ties of his boots. "Last night…," he vaguely remembered. "You mentioned Sanguine. Why?"

Ma'jhad smiled as he finished with his boots, and then began to pack up his belongings. Onmund thought it would be best to help, but first he retrieved his own boots. "This one knows what you have done for Sanguine. Khajiit speaks with the Prince frequently."

"How… how long have you known?"

"Since Shor's Stone," Ma'jhad answered plainly.

The companions broke camp quickly and silently, and headed south to Riften.

. . . . . .

Onmund was exhausted by the time he and Ma'jhad reached the Thieves Guild hideout in Riften. The tavern attached to the hideout was called the Ragged Flagon. It was musty, dark, and quiet. Only a bald Breton man, a Redguard woman, and the bartender were inside.

Ma'jhad wasted no time in showing Onmund to the sleeping areas within the hideout. Aside from one larger room set aside for someone Ma'jhad called the Guildmaster, the sleeping quarters consisted of one large room filled with row after row of unremarkable bunked beds. A room off to the side of the communal bedroom had a row of holes in a stone bench situated over a gentle stream of water. Onmund realized they were latrines – communal latrines. Yet another room boasted one large bathing tub which, being made out of wood, was fairly leaky and smelled of mold.

Onmund was a long way from the comparative domestic bliss that the College of Winterhold had to offer.

"The mage is tired," Ma'jhad said. "Find a bed used by no one; this one will find you in the morning." The Khajiit left the communal bedroom with a smile.

. . . . . .

"A _mage_," the redheaded Nord named Brynjolf contorted his face in disapproval when Ma'jhad approached his friend with the idea that Onmund be initiated into the Guild.

"_Yes,_" Ma'jhad hissed, "a mage. The Nord needs a job, money, a bed." The Khajiit turned to Onmund. "Show my friend what you can do." His whiskers twitched when his mouth curved into a grin.

Onmund sighed, turned to Brynjolf, and silently cast a brief invisibility spell. Ma'jhad smiled. Brynjolf's jaw dropped.

The head recruiter of the Thieves Guild walked around the area where the Nord mage had been standing. Brynjolf could see what he thought were hints of _something_ there, like hot air rising from a heating kettle not yet at a boil, but the mage had truly made himself invisible. Several breaths later, the mage reappeared in the same place he was when he cast the spell. Brynjolf moved to face Onmund.

"Can you do that and walk around?" Brynjolf asked him.

"Of course," Onmund responded.

"How long does the spell last?"

"Anywhere between several heartbeats and several days, if my concentration remains intact."

"What can break your concentration?" the thief continued his interview.

Onmund thought for a brief moment. "Being hit, or walked into usually breaks the spell, but not always. Defensive magic or destruction magic cast against me will almost certainly break it."

"How often have you lost concentration?"

Onmund frowned. "Once – that is, in reality. In practice, several times, when testing the spell. But that was early on in my education. I've mastered this specific spell. I can cast and recast it silently, and continuously. It takes only moderate energy to cast, just lots of concentration to hold."

"And you've… used this before… around people…."

"Yes. Many times. At the College and… elsewhere." Onmund frowned again. He wasn't exactly pleased at the fact that he had to resort to stealing in order to feed himself.

"And you move quietly enough to not get noticed? Even while… carrying a load?" Brynjolf cleared his throat.

"Yes, quite quietly, in fact. When I was testing the spell around the College, no one ever knew I was there until… well, I finally lost control, lost concentration. But that won't happen again."

"How can you be so sure?"

Onmund sighed. "Because I will never again be in the situation I was in when it happened. I lost myself and someone cast a frost spell on me. I was in pain, frozen to the floor and…," Onmund pretended he had to cough, buying himself a moment to gather his thoughts. "You'll… just have to trust me. I learned from my mistake." Onmund stood taller, straighter, and his gaze at Brynjolf was unwavering. "I need money. I need a job. I need a new _life_. I have nowhere else to go. As Ma'jhad will tell you, I've already been stealing and selling things just to feed myself. I have no qualms about doing it for… business reasons."

"_Business _reasons," Brynjolf scoffed as he looked passed Onmund to Ma'jhad, one of the Guild's traveling fences. He smoothed a hand over his auburn-stubbled face and stood there, contemplating the mage's request. Several agonizingly long moments passed before Brynjolf spoke again. "How do you feel about traveling?" he asked Onmund.

"I'm fine with it."

"No ties anywhere? Desire to stay in Riften?"

"None. Except… I'd prefer to stay away from Winterhold. And Windhelm, if possible. Um, and Rorikstead."

"Hmph." Brynjolf crossed his arms over his chest. Onmund then noticed the multitude of various pockets that adorned the man's unpolished leather armor, and the faint shimmer of green that indicated it was enchanted. The Nord thief slowly tapped his fingers in succession on his leather sleeves. "Who are you hiding from?"

"Hiding? Oh… uh, some people. Like I said, I don't want to go back to those places…. Nothing to do with… things I've stolen. I haven't been caught doing that."

"Well then my destitute friend," Brynjolf turned from Onmund and led him down a path toward a smaller hall, "why don't you stick around Riften for a while – do some simple jobs for us at first. But, first, tell me – can you pick a lock?"


	7. Dragons

_**AN**: This chapter links in plot points fleshed out by my short story "Dragonbane"._

* * *

**7**

**Dragons**

A job took Onmund to Markarth, a big city of stone in the west. Wanting to avoid Rorikstead on his way across the country, Onmund traveled somewhat south, instead passing through a tiny village and overnighting in an inn there called the Old Hroldan. Over breakfast he couldn't help but overhear the conversation of three other patrons – an Orc and two Khajiit. They were all wearing the same armor, though the Khajiit's appeared somewhat less heavy than the Orc's. More interestingly, they all carried the same sword, long, slender things that looked like a child could wield them. Onmund knew they were not Stormcloaks or Imperial soldiers, and couldn't help but wonder who they were.

Figuring a slight delay wouldn't hurt his job's progress, Onmund decided to follow the trio one they left the inn. Invisible and silent in his light leather boots and cloth mage's rob, Onmund trailed them quite close, perfectly able to overhear their conversation.

"It is a shame that the Orc knows no magic," one of the Khajiit, a woman, said to the others as they ascended to higher ground. "Frost and fire do much damage to the tender wings of dragons."

_Dragons? _Onmund silently repeated.

"_This one_," the male Orc responded mockingly, "can loose an entire quiver of arrows through a dragon's wings before it knows what the fuck happened. And _I_ can carry three times the dragon bones as you two kittens can."

"This one is developing a way to enchant arrows," the male Khajiit declared. "Magic and archery, combined." He then tapped a claw against the woman's armored shoulder. Onmund watched as the Khajiit flicked a single finger up, formed a fist, and then knocked his hand backward as if he was downing mead.

The last thing Onmund expected was to nearly walk into two long, thin blades after the Khajiit simultaneously turned around and pointed their matching swords at him.

. . . . . .

Onmund's head was spinning. No, the room was spinning. They had forced him to drink something sickeningly sweet, and afterwards began asking him questions.

Who are you? Who sent you? Why were you following Qa'Jirr, Tisha, and Grol?

His stomach was churning. Onmund was so focused on not vomiting that his mouth moved on its own accord, letting the answers, slurred and barely comprehensible, pass over his lips.

Onmund of Rorikstead. No one. Curious.

The short, fierce, tattooed redhead woman who had been shouting her questions at him struck his face with an open hand. Her nails had been filed sharp, and Onmund groaned loudly when the initial shock wore off and the temporarily stunned, severed nerves began to scream.

"Lying Nord scum! I should have just killed you when—"

"Rhianne!" Through watering, foggy eyes, Onmund watched as a short blonde woman in the same armor that the Khajiit wore entered the small room where he had been tied to a chair. "You used your serum and he answered. Enough already."

"But he—"

"—is not a Thalmor spy." The blonde scoffed, walked over to Onmund, and quickly untied the ropes that bound him. "Sorry about that," she said to the mage, afterwards turning to the redhead. "Heal his face, girl."

The curly-haired scary woman growled, all but smacked her palm against Onmund's cheek, and healed the claw marks she had given him. The warm wave of healing magic cleansed his mind, and his thoughts and vision were clear again. He saw that the blonde, attractive, and somewhat older woman was smiling at him.


	8. Spy

**8**

**Spy**

Onmund's left leg was shaking silently as the horse-drawn cart pulled ever-closer to the Thalmor embassy. He was more than nervous. There wasn't a word for what he was. He held no great distaste for Altmer or any elf for that matter, but he was fairly certain the Thalmor were awful people, and he wanted nothing to do with them. He was also certain that despite his prowess in sneaking around, there was still a very big chance that he would be detected. Altmer were renowned wizards, after all.

The plan was actually painfully simple. Walk very close behind the invitees he was riding in the cart with. Enter the embassy behind them. Hide until he was able to get deeper inside the embassy. Find offices – anywhere he might find official documents.

From his time with the Thieves Guild, Onmund had become quite skilled at picking locks using magic only. Thankfully, casting such a spell did not disrupt his invisibility. Delphine, the gorgeous, feisty blonde who saved him from possibly being further maimed by the scary redhead, nearly shrieked with joy when she learned of Onmund's skills.

She was the leader of the western branch of an organization called The Blades. Once guards of the Emperor, now dragon hunters, The Blades served the Dragonborn, an Orc named Torug. They were hunted by the Thalmor, hence Delphine's desire to know what they were up to. She was wholly convinced they were the ones responsible for the return of dragons to Skyrim, and wanted Onmund to find the documents to prove it. He had been unsure about the endeavor, about breaking into the Thalmor Embassy, but when Delphine grazed a finger across his robed chest and whispered sultry promises in his ear, he readily agreed. As soon as he did, he heard the familiar voice of Sanguine enter his mind, saying a single word: "Yes."

. . . . . .

Sneaking inside the Embassy was way too easy. He was fearful of this fact. Eventually he found himself inside what appeared to be an office, which was just near an obvious torture room. He daren't free the prisoners there, not yet anyway, not until he had what he went there for.

No one was in the office. He figured whoever worked in there was attending the party in the main hall. Only the sporadic guard stalked the remainder of the palace, and most of them were distracted by their own conversations.

And then he found them – pile after pile of papers and journals and scrolls. One particular paper on top of a pile was what drew in his attention.

It was a sketch of Deborah.


	9. Sanguine's Rose

**9**

**Sanguine's Rose**

Onmund was halfway to Dragon Bridge when Sanguine appeared to him in the same human form he had assumed months ago. The mage sneered at the Prince and kept on walking.

"Oh, don't give me that face my darling Champion."

"Where have you been!?" Onmund snapped at Sanguine. "I needed money – you just… you disappeared."

"Watch your tongue lest I bite it off." Sanguine sneered, but was soon grinning. "I was with you. Did you not hear me?"

"Oh, I heard you. A Khajiit? Really!?"

Laughter burst out of Sanguine, startling a small flock of birds which promptly fled the tree they were resting in. "Listen, I have one more task for you, Champion. One more, and you will be rewarded enough to last you the rest of your life. What say you?"

. . . . . .

_Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!_

He did it. He actually did it. It didn't matter to Sanguine that the ladies in the temple were all asleep and that he essentially _couldn't_ get caught. All that mattered was that he was naked, and that he had just spilt his seed into the blessed waters of Dibella's shrine. Onmund watched his soft white relic swirl gently into the mostly stagnant water. Just in case, he recast the invisibility spell upon himself and promptly left the temple.

. . . . . .

_Your prize will be waiting for you in a safe temple in the sky._ Sanguine's words were awkward, but he knew what the Prince meant. Sky Haven Temple.

Onmund was still invisible when he returned to the hideout of The Blades, and snuck passed Delphine easily. He had decided long ago while on the road to never give the Breton the papers he had found at the Embassy, despite her promises of bedding him upon his successful return. _She's using you, _Sanguine had whispered to him. _Take the papers to Forelhost. You will thank me, later_.

In the back area of the temple grounds, hitched up high in an ancient tree, glittered his prize: a Daedric metal staff, forged as one, dark brown-green piece but somehow colored red at the tip. The entire thing looked like an enormous single rose, a plant foreign to Skyrim but found elsewhere in Tamriel. The stalk was straight and tough with 'thorns' jutting out sporadically from the shaft near the bloom. The thorns at the very end were large enough to kill a man. The staff was perfectly symbolic of Sanguine's beautiful, bloody nature.

As soon as he grasped the objected, the rose emitted a blue-purple orb of magic with a black center – the glow of Oblivion. _My gift to you, Champion, _Sanguine whispered inside Onmund's mind,_ is eternal companionship. My Dremora will do your bidding – whatever it is you desire of them. What…ever… you… desire…._

Onmund was confused, but as he was alone in the rear of the temple, he pointed the metal, glowing rose at the ground and willed the staff to cast its magic. No prayers or incantations were necessary with staves, making them very useful in cases where one did not know particular spells.

Immediately after cast, purple-white flames burst from the air, dissipating quickly to reveal a Sanguine look-alike, a Dremora made in the Prince's image. "Grrreetings, Master Onmund," the Dremora crooned. His voice sounded like it was being spoken from within a cast iron kettle. "I am called Kynreeve, and I await your instruction."

It didn't take Onmund long to think about his first request. "Are you able to transport me to other places? Can you take me to Forelhost?"

Kynreeve's smile was nothing short of mischievous.


End file.
